Butterflies are flying around—on a bright sunny day.

Butterflies that are a honey brown— as the crust of the sun.

Flying around because the sun is out.

Not to hide or hibernate in their cocoons.

Concealing themselves from the outside world—not doing that today.

They can't inherit the trait of being anti-social, because they are not human.

At least not in this season, because it is bright outside.

Not being contrary to anyone’s belief.

Not worrying about the input or the output.———
These butterflies are free, scavenging around for places to hide.

Although the night had ceased, the Sun.

They—> Butterflies,
ran around like elephants encountering mice—
or humans encountering roaches.

Looking for a tree to settle on, as if there were not numerous amounts outside.

Out of all the figures outside—
It chose to stand by me?

The spot on my skin that is the most rough.

The spot on my skin textured like trees.

The spot on my skin that looked like the trees.

“Oh.”

Realization then dawned on me, just like that the sun woke up like a new idea—
and the Moon left to attend a party on the other side.

Like the Moon, the butterfly flew away, back onto the tree with a newfound realization.

Okay, so—
I didn’t just walk out.
I ran.
Not in a cool, slow-mo movie way.
More like tripping over a slipper
and accidentally knocking over my own confidence.

From what?
Everything.
The noise, the drama, the people who say
“Can I give you some feedback?”
(Please don’t. I’m fragile.)

I ran from my to-do list,
from “urgent” group calls,
and that one aunty who asks
if I’ve “lost weight or just look sick.”
Honestly, both.

I ran when I saw my old teacher at the grocery store.
I ran when someone asked,
“What’s your 5-year plan?”
I barely have a 5-minute one
and it mostly involves snacks.

Call it immature—
I call it survival.

I didn’t pack much.
Just chips, a charger,
and a carefully folded blanket of denial.

No regrets.
Now I’m somewhere quiet,
where no one talks about promotions,
weddings,
or “what I’ve accomplished lately.”

Just me, my hoodie,
and a growing list of things I pretend don’t exist

Poem

Poem

Poem

Poem

Poem

Poem

I'll heal so that I don't bleed
On those I love like brother did
And so that I do not project
My wounds on those whom I connect
With.

I'll heal so I learn to let go
Of others in love, not control
So I don't repeat the cycle
That is torturing my mother.

And I will heal so I'll be able
To feel and be vulnerable
And so when love comes I don't falter
That is the burden of my father.

I’ll heal so that I can accept
The pain stuck inside my neck
The rage and fear and guilt and tears
That’s gathered there through many years

I’ll heal so that I learn to grief
And not get stuck in a “what if”
Or in dread impressing in
My weary body, bit by bit

I will heal to that my chest
Is not imprisoned to the past
And so that love for what is next
Can make my life a home to last.

I'll heal, not for someone else,
I'll heal for me, it’s for the best.
And for the future to be free,
I’ll heal it all - it ends with me.

_M.